The bugler sent a call of high romance— <br />“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square. <br />On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, <br />“God, if it’s this for me next time in France… <br />O spare the phantom bugle as I lie <br />Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, <br />Dead in a row with the other broken ones <br />Lying so stiff and still under the sky, <br />Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.”<br /><br />Robert Graves<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-last-post/
